Wicked As Sin

by Jillian Hunter

  “With all due respect, my lady,” he said, “I have just returned from war. My moral obligations to Society have been met.”

  “Moral?”

  “If I want to sleep in the barn all night, I shall do so. And if the servants of Helbourne wish to dance up and down the stairs naked while polishing the banister, I don’t see why I should stop them.”

  “Then why did you come here?” she asked in frustration.

  “You’re not going to give up, are you?”

  She bit the edge of her lip. “No.”

  “Why do you wish me to lord it over Helbourne?” he asked in amusement, wondering idly what she would do if he kissed her.

  She drew back a little. “It’s heartbreaking to see a grand estate fall into neglect—although not as much as to see a gentleman do so.”

  “Perhaps I could be persuaded to stay a month or two. Depending on how nice my neighbors are.”

  She gave him a hard look. “I always wondered what happened to you after you disappeared that last winter.”

  He cleared his throat. It was a pleasant shock to hear that she’d thought about him at all, but her concern was wasted. Suddenly, instead of feeling worldly and at the top of his game, he felt careworn, unworthy of her benevolent spirit.

  “Well, now you know,” he said with an unapologetic smile. “And don’t tell me that I did not fulfill your expectations of what I would become.”

  “You do feel sorry for yourself, don’t you?” she asked after a long hesitation.

  “No,” he replied in a clipped voice.

  “Then if there’s nothing I can do to persuade you to change your mind, I might as well leave.”

  He grasped her wrist without knowing why and drew her close. “I didn’t say you couldn’t persuade me. It’s the least you can do after waking me up.”

  Before she could react or take offense, he clamped one arm down on her back and gathered her against him. He didn’t allow her a chance to speak. He urged her down, onto the straw beneath him, and kissed her, his tongue easing between her parted lips. God knows if she hadn’t been Alethea Claridge, he’d have taken a lot more than a kiss. She tasted like honey and fire and summer wine. Her body molded itself in soft enticement to his. He brushed his mouth over her lips, traced his hand over her well-shaped hip. She didn’t move. He felt himself grow hard, gripped by an urgency he did not understand.

  He pressed her deeper into the straw. She pressed back, the warm hollows of her body accommodating his heavily muscled frame. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this unsolicited visit, but all of a sudden his head had never been clearer. Or his body more aroused. “Alethea.” He eased onto his side, his hand still planted on her posterior. “May I—”

  He felt the shiver that went through her. How easy to convince himself it was desire. The shadowed emotion in her eyes bespoke something less flattering. Still, his lips sought hers, craving every last drop of nectar.

  “Gabriel Boscastle.”

  He eased himself onto his elbow. He traced his finger over her mouth to the tidy row of buttons at her throat until he reached the cleft of her breasts. His heart quickened as her gaze lifted to his. She was truly beautiful, in a dark, subtle way, with sculpted cheekbones and heavily fringed eyes that made him feel lower than the boy she had pitied years ago. He knew so much more now. Did that matter to her?

  His thumb slipped beneath the lace banding of the chemise that bound her breasts. “Very pretty. And soft.”

  She gave a startled gasp. He went still, momentarily stunned at the intensity of his temptation to continue. He paused, his pulses surging.

  “If you think I will be seduced in a barn, you have had your head in a gin barrel.”

  “I don’t suppose you would invite me to share your bed?” he inquired, his grin impudent.

  “Do you really need to ask?”

  “If there is the smallest chance that you will agree, then yes, I do. And I’m not beneath begging, either.”

  He waited, gripped by a need that he wasn’t sure he could control. And if he’d learned anything about himself, it was that he needed to be in control. “You’ll have to forgive me,” he said when it became apparent that she was not going to encourage further intimacies. “I’m not accustomed to being awakened like this.”

  She smiled archly. “Then I won’t inquire as to your usual rituals upon arising.”

  He gave her such a guilty smile in return that she started to laugh. “The vicar’s wife is not going to find us together. You are even worse than when I last saw you, Gabriel. I can’t imagine why I’m bothering with you at all.”

  “Neither can I. However, in my own defense, I should state that when a beautiful woman awakens a disreputable man from a deep slumber, she should be prepared that he will respond with—well, that he will respond. Any man would react the same way, I’d wager, to find someone like you leaning over him with that look you were giving me.”

  She rose to her hands and knees, her riding skirt tangled around her dusty half-boots, her bottom in the air. It was such a provocative position, one of his amatory favorites, that he had to set his teeth to tamp down the rising tension in his body.

  “I would expect a sleeping dog to react, perhaps,” she said. “Or a—”

  She lifted her left arm impatiently to push an errant curl from her shoulder. The gesture drew his gaze to the firm breasts molded beneath the buttoned bodice of her riding habit. He swallowed dryly, blaming his sudden sense of vertigo on bad brandy.

  He glanced away. “Do you want me to help you brush the straw off your dress?”

  “No. It doesn’t bother me. Just keep those wicked hands to yourself.”

  He grinned. “Fine. Whatever pleases you. But in return I shall request that you not raise your voice. My head is aching like a swollen wineskin as it is.”

  She glanced in distaste at the bottles propped against the bale. “I wonder why. Hide those—and hurry. Get to your feet before Mrs. Bryant arrives.”

  “I did not ask for her welcome,” he grumbled. “I have no intention of staying. She might as well be wishing me good-bye. Save her the trouble of bothering.”

  She reached behind him and picked up one of his discarded brandy bottles. Intuition cautioned him that she was contemplating conking him over the head. To his relief, she swept to her feet, her irritation seemingly satisfied by merely tossing the bottle into an empty stall. He decided their kiss had been worth this minor outrage. And she could hit him all she wanted if he could have her to himself for another hour.

  “Why did you let yourself degenerate into darkness, Gabriel? You could have risen above whatever burdens you had to bear. None of us meet life without some sort of affliction. I’d hoped you would have become, well, something else.”

  Her criticism stung. But she did not understand and he refused to demean himself by trying to enlighten her.

  “Perhaps my outcome was preordained by my bloodlines.”

  She shook her head, her lips temptingly moist from his kiss. His defense had sounded false even to his own ears.

  He knew he could not blame the most twisted turns of his dark nature on his Boscastle ancestry. The scandalous brood had only extended the early lessons of love and a passion for life he had learned from his father. For a time he had resented the close bonds of his cousins and had concealed his envy behind taunts and rivalry, even as he hoped to prove himself their equal. None of his London kin knew much about his earlier travails. For years he had assumed they did not ask because they felt no true interest in what he had survived.

  But now that he’d been accepted into the family proper, he realized they had been more likely respecting his privacy than showing indifference. He had concluded that if his proud French mother had asked for help after the death of Gabriel’s father, the Boscastles would have offered their support without hesitation.

  Yet his mother had been embarrassed, guilty, and afraid that the Boscastles would snub her for marrying so soon after Joshu
a’s death. He wished he’d known then that the Boscastles were anything but a self-righteous family.

  Passionate to a fault, yes, but strongly linked and loyal to one another. He wasn’t ashamed to count himself in the clan.

  He frowned at her. “What do you think I’ve become, anyway? Be honest.”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps you ought to look in the mirror and ask yourself.”

  “Not this early in the morning, darling.”

  “It’s past two in the afternoon.”

  “That’s all? I shouldn’t be up for five more hours. Let’s have a nap together.”

  “You were a colonel in the cavalry,” she said dryly. “Did you only fight at night?”

  “No.” He gazed at her with frankness. He couldn’t tell her he had started to change for the better before Waterloo, and that inexplicably he’d begun to fall back into his bad ways after his last battle. “What about you? Are you still the paragon that struck every young man in Helbourne love-blind?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t know it to look at you.” He paused. She had to realize how beautiful she was. “I heard about your loss. It’s a shame.”

  She stared at him, her face closing, and he wished suddenly that he had not brought up the subject. She was too easy to talk to. He had slipped into a comfortable conversation without even realizing it. But now, after he’d mentioned the death of the man she’d loved, she looked distant, upset, and he knew that this would be a barrier between them.

  “It’s all right,” he said awkwardly. “I lost a lot of friends last year, too.”

  She nodded, glancing around. “I hear the gig at the gate. Where is your coat?”

  “I gave it to my horse.”

  “Oh, Gabriel.”

  “Well, the others were filthy.”

  “What am I to do with you?”

  He combed his fingers through his hair and surged to his feet only a second before a sprightly older woman came striding into the barn.

  “Fetch your coat,” Alethea whispered. “And don’t tell her what just happened.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Ah, there you are, Alethea,” a genial voice cried at the door. “I should have known you’d be in the stables. And how clean it is in here. Our new neighbor has been hard at work, I see. It will be inspiring to watch this old house restored to what it used to be. That pasture begs for a thoroughbred or two, and surely a cavalry officer will take pride…”

  Caroline Bryant, the vicar’s wife, was an amiable blond matron in a calico dress with a bonnet tied under her double chin, and she chattered on with such focused energy it seemed she didn’t care that the new master of the house had spent the night in the stable. From what little Gabriel knew, Helbourne had a history of dissolute owners, so his behavior was probably no different.

  He reached down surreptitiously and picked up the riding crop that Alethea had dropped. “This is yours,” he said in a wry undertone. “I’m not going to ask what you use it for.”

  For a moment he thought she would ignore him. Then with a smile she took the crop and answered under her breath, “It’s a secret weapon to keep my neighbors under control.”

  He grinned back at her. “One never knows when a little discipline is in order.”

  He rested his arm back on a bale of hay and almost lost his balance. Alethea caught his sleeve with a disparaging sigh, then set him away from her with a frown of warning. The vicar’s wife chattered on, oblivious to what she’d missed. He could have told both of them he was past hope, cavalry officer or not. The good possibilities in Gabriel had died before he was fifteen years old. During the war, when he had helped blow up a bridge over the River Elba, he’d all but given up the ghost himself. He’d had to cut off nearly all his hair because it was singed and had suffered an ugly scar on his throat. He really did look like the dragon the French officers used to call him.

  He blinked, suddenly realizing that the vicar’s wife had just passed her hand over his face. He wasn’t sure if she was issuing him a benediction or attempting to raise him from the dead. He forced a response from his throat. “You were saying, madam?” he asked hoarsely.

  “We are blessed in that we live removed from the evil influences of our times,” she confirmed in a pious but overloud voice that resounded in the chambers of his skull.

  He squinted at her. “London, you mean. Wicked place that. Ruins a person. I’ve just left.”

  She gave a nod. “Here in the country we live by faith, love, and charity.”

  “Amen,” he said, earning another dubious look from Alethea. What was he supposed to say? “Let’s start plowing then.”

  Mrs. Bryant looked at him for several moments. He caught Alethea rolling her eyes. Clearly he’d said something off. “We plow in October, Sir Gabriel.”

  “Ah. I’d forgotten. Then perhaps we should start in September.” Not that he planned on staying in this bog that long. “To get ahead of the others who wait until October.”

  Alethea granted him a sly smile. “That’s when we do our threshing.”

  “Could we not thresh earlier?”

  He stared at her mouth. Her eyes teased him. He was going to do far more than kiss her if she gave him another chance. “Only if you know of a way to coax the corn to mature before its time.” She paused, and he wanted to pull her down onto the straw again. “Do you?”

  He grinned. “You’d think me a damned idiot if I said I did, wouldn’t you?”

  She laughed. “Yes.”

  “I’m not a farmer.” He shrugged. “I never was.”

  Alethea studied him. “Perhaps you aren’t a farmer, but you have tenants who are. Not many, I grant you. The few who’ve remained are your responsibility.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t even know them.”

  “Shall we ride together so that I may introduce you?”

  “Perhaps another day,” he said, contriving to look sincere.

  And not deceiving her for a moment.

  She remembered what he’d been.

  God willing he’d be gone before she discovered what he was now.

  Mrs. Bryant gave him an encouraging smile. “We gathered you weren’t a farmer. But may I ask what you are?”

  “Well, I’m a gambler,” he said without thinking. “And—”

  “Isn’t that helpful?” Alethea murmured.

  “—and a cavalry officer. Well, I was. I know horses. I do.”

  Mrs. Bryant appraised his strong form. “That’s a good start.”

  “Horses and women,” he amended.

  “And I suppose to your way of thinking there’s not much difference,” she said with an admonishing look.

  He smiled at her. “Of course there is. A well-bred horse can make a man a fortune. A well-bred woman can spend the same amount ten times over.”

  Alethea vented a sigh. “I think it’s time for us to leave, Mrs. Bryant. Poor Sir Gabriel was up all night tending to his horse.”

  He blinked again as the three of them walked outside. The sun was enrobed by a sullen bank of clouds. It was a typical gray English day with a glare that set off a pain behind his eyes.

  And made him realize again how truly beautiful Alethea had become. Perhaps she’d grown a little too tall to be called a London beauty. Her features, that patrician nose, her overgenerous mouth, and angular chin, were not delicate by a classical standard.

  But he’d kissed that imperfect mouth and she was still talking to him. The fact cheered him considerably. After all, she had beheld him at the lowest ebb of his life and even if he hadn’t become a better person over the years, he wasn’t worse. Or at least he hadn’t been caught at anything. And he had no other plans for the rest of the summer unless he visited some old friends in Venice.

  Mrs. Bryant thrust a heavy basket into his hands. “On behalf of the parish, please accept this small token of our esteem. Welcome to Helbourne, Sir Gabriel.”

  He swallowed hard. “Thank you,” he said, realizing she
expected some response. “What—exactly what is it?”

  “Violet jelly. Three jars of it. A succulent ham. And a book of prayers.”

  Violet jelly and prayers. He wondered when he’d be fitted for his false teeth. “That’s too kind of you,” he said politely.

  Mrs. Bryant looked him in the eye. “You’ll need to keep your strength up if you’re to take over Helbourne. You must not allow your staff to intimidate you,” she said forcefully. “You must take charge of your estate.”

  Gabriel hazarded a glance at Alethea; her eyes danced with laughter. “Must I?”

  Mrs. Bryant stamped her foot in the straw. “Tell the varlets who’s in control.”

  “I did last night. At least I think I did.”

  “Then why, may I inquire, did you sleep out in the barn?”

  “Well, because I—”

  Mrs. Bryant nodded in understanding. “Because you were afraid to sleep in the house. Afraid that one of those scalawags would do you in during the night. I do not blame you for taking the precaution.”

  “I believe I shall have them in hand soon enough,” he said, although the thought had crossed his mind after that potshot from the long gallery that he had been dispatched from one war only to fight another.

  “I assume Alethea told you about the man who took possession of Helbourne three years ago?”

  Gabriel shook his head. “What happened to him?” he asked cautiously.

  “Nobody knows,” Alethea answered. “He was seen running through the hills in his nightwear and was never seen again.”

  “But that won’t happen to Sir Gabriel,” Mrs. Bryant said with an encouraging smile.

  Alethea arched her brows in curiosity. “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t as a rule wear nightclothes,” he replied bluntly. “And because nobody is chasing me from this house until I leave of my own accord.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Mrs. Bryant said with a nod of satisfaction. “Helbourne has a new master, and he is no namby-pamby who will allow anyone to drive him away.”

  Chapter Nine

  Namby-pamby he was not, Alethea thought. Not even in his early years could he have been termed as such. Tough, disrespectful, defiant, stubborn to his own detriment. Those enduring faults she would not deny, and most likely neither would he. But he was an unabashed reprobate if ever she had met one. She mounted her gelding and rode past the broken pasture fence with what composure she could summon.